One Way or Another(79)

So okay, maybe she would make a splash at the Marshmallows ball, maybe she would let Ghulbian get her a dress to go with his jewels so she could show him off. Or at least his money, she thought with sudden mind-numbing truth. Ahmet was okay but he was old and he was too rich and he was—her heart skipped a beat just thinking about this—dangerous.

Why she’d thought that, she was not quite sure, but there was something about him; his smiling, friendly, though not fatherly, behavior told her he was after her, and she didn’t like it. Yet sometimes it gave her a thrill. Hey, a rich guy is after me, she could tell her friends. Old as Methuselah. Think I’m too young for him?

Remembering Mehitabel, she suddenly made up her mind. “Thanks, but no,” she told her. “I have a perfectly nice dress I want to wear, and if Ahmet’s jewels don’t match, then let some other girl wear them. I’m sure he knows plenty of women. Thank you, Mehitabel,” she said, ever polite, as she clicked off her phone. Then she called Martha.

*

Martha had not meant to go back alone to Marshmallows but, as always, there was a hitch in the plans. Morrie resolutely refused to accompany her, said she could fire him if she wanted but that was it. Of course she had not fired him, but remembering her last creepy visit to the house she’d needed someone to go with her. She got Marco on the phone.

“I’m scared of that place” was her opening line, which, of course, immediately got his interest, and his concern.

“You’re talking about Marshmallows?”

“Damn right, and I have to go there to take care of details for the ball this weekend.”

“I’m surprised anyone is going to the ball since Ahmet does not appear to have friends.”

“He has now. Everyone I know was invited and most accepted out of straight curiosity. Besides, it promises to be the most extravagant bash of the year, it’ll probably go down in history, at least it will if the media have their way, because every single one of the social correspondents is coming. I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, Marc, and I am really nervous now.”

“So, what can I do?”

“Just be there with me. We have to make sure the driveway has been re-graveled, that new trees are planted, and the lanterns are arranged in those crappy little twisted things that pass for trees at that place, that the dance floor is waxed, the electricians are setting up for the microphones, that the platform for the band is finished, that the swimming pool has been covered where the rock group will play so people can dance; that the buffet tables are lined up along the route from kitchen to dining room, where small tables should be set with crisp white linen and fine china. And pray that none of the guests will run off with the solid silver cutlery Ahmet insists on using, though it’s worth a friggin’ fortune. Why oh why, Marco, does that man always have to show how rich he is? Why can’t he just get over it and behave normally?”

“The truth is, Ahmet is not normal. Better get used to that idea, my love, because I can bet you will see both sides of that turbulent personality this weekend. If Ahmet does not get exactly what he wants, exactly what he paid for, there will be hell to pay.”

Remembering Ahmet’s angry words about getting exactly what he paid for, Martha felt her heart sink. She should never have taken on this job. And that cow Mehitabel was right, it could make or break her. Still, she had her team: four women and two men who worked with her, knew what she wanted almost before she asked for it. And who never minded either running out for coffee or joining her at the end of yet another shattering day for a glass of wine and a bit of a laugh, which certainly helped make her world go round. But most of all she wanted to be with Marco. She suddenly needed most desperately to see him, to feel his arms round her, rest her head in the crook of his shoulder, smell his own incense of lime and vanilla and sheer lovely sexy-man flesh.

She was calling him from her car, having run yet another errand, hot and sweaty, hair a limp wreck, nerves frazzled, her morning’s makeup long gone, not even a touch of lip gloss. “I’m coming over right now,” she warned him. “Just as I am, in sweatpants and furry slippers, in need of a shower and a hug and a kiss.”

“Which do you want first, baby?” She heard him laughing as he rang off.

Oddly, what she said to him when she arrived was not the “I love you” Marco expected. Instead she said, “I’m really worried about Ahmet and Lucy. He had that woman call my sister to arrange to take her out and buy her a dress for the ball. A dress,” Martha added, with a frown of anger, “that would go with the jewels he wants her to wear. No, wait a minute, that wasn’t exactly what Mehitabel said. I believe it was the jewels Lucy would wear.”

Marco’s brows rose. “You mean, like it or lump it?”

“That’s exactly what I mean, and that’s why I’m worried about him.”

Marco went to the fridge, took out a bottle of Chablis, found two glasses, poured the wine. He handed a glass to Martha, walked her over to the long sofa, with the old shawls and quilts he used in his work thrown over it, sat her down, adjusted a cushion at her back, removed her slippers, swung her legs up, then sat beside her and lifted her legs onto his lap.

“So, okay, tell me all about it, honey,” he said.

Martha took a deep breath. “So, okay,” she repeated his words, “I know I’m working for him. He’s my boss. It’s a major commission, the biggest I ever had. It’s extremely important to me, not simply that I’ll be making a great deal of money and Ahmet is a generous man where money is concerned, at least where Marshmallows is concerned, he is, but I can’t stand him. Marco, something is wrong. I can’t put my finger on it, I can’t say exactly why or what, but I remember the bad vibes at that house, I can still hear that strange scream in my dreams. My skin crawls whenever I think of being alone there.”